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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143425">the twelfth depressioner</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hajne/pseuds/hajne'>hajne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Columbine - Fandom, Historical Criminals RPF, True Crime - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Boys Being Boys, Choking, Cutting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:16:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,012</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hajne/pseuds/hajne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was Mr. Cutter tonight — I have 11 depressioners on my right hand now.”       – Dylan’s journal</p><p>*<br/><br/>He watched in slow motion as Eric's lips parted and his tongue made a broad lick over the trickle running down the old wounds. There was so much blood Eric couldn’t lick it away completely, rather he spread it all over the place. When his tongue reached the new, bleeding cut, he pressed his lips down and sucked.</p><p>Shuddering Dylan wondered if he had ever had such a beautiful nightmare.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the twelfth depressioner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fiction fetishizes self-harm. If that or any of the tags (or the fandom itself) makes you uncomfortable, please, do not read.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Dylan woke up, the sun was still hidden behind the horizon but the pale glow had already promised the arrival of a new day. More like threatened, he thought. He had grown to hate the sun, he truly loathed that yellow motherfucker. If it never came up, he wouldn’t have to go to school ever again. He could sleep forever. He could look in the mirror and not see himself.</p><p>Isn’t that called death?</p><p>He tried to fall asleep again to no avail, so he put on his headphones and pushed play on his walkman. There was some pretty good stuff on the mixtape Eric had given him, although he had already known most of it. As he was turning the cassette case in his hand, he examined Eric’s handwriting and ran his thumb over the shaky yet sharp lines. It comforted him a little bit; however, it wasn’t enough.</p><p>Some school days were tolerable, nice even. Joking around with Eric and the others, paying attention in classes, and easily ignoring the rest of the crowd. Then he felt hopeful, powerful even: life might be hard, but he could make it. However, on most days, he felt people staring at him. Talking about him. Grinning. And he hated them. But the worst was that sometimes his frustration and anger turned into malevolent glee, and he joined mocking some kid who had never done anything to him. And those moments of hypocrisy forced him to realize the world is not black and white, and even if it was, perhaps he wouldn’t be the martyr after all. In times like this, he had to punish himself to restore the world order.</p><p>Well, that was half of the truth.</p><p>He reached into his bedside table.</p><p>*</p><p>Sunbeams were falling onto the floor and birds were shrieking their unbearable songs. Dylan was sitting on the bed and staring into space, painfully aware he’d have to head for the school soon. A wide yawn almost tore his face apart, his eyes were sore (had he been crying last night, too? Of course not), and he knew the day was going to be hell. The gray long-sleeve t-shirt he had put on wasn’t the coolest; it did the job, though. But for now, he rolled the right sleeve up and relished the sight once more.</p><p>The movement one by one revealed a series of red lines. The blood had already gone dry and dark, making the cuts even more distinct on his pale forearm. There were things about Dylan he could be proud of, but he wasn’t. And then there were things he probably shouldn’t be proud of, and he loved them. He ran his finger over one particularly nasty cut the same way he caressed Eric’s handwriting, and it gave him the same satisfaction. He glanced around the room as if someone could be there, and then he lowered his face to lick the wounds. The feel of them under his tongue and the metallic taste made him exhale shakily, his warm breath heating the wet skin. He no longer remembered why he was doing that, it had become a ritual too long ago. The thought of injured animals licking their wounds vaguely crossed his mind; it probably didn’t make them close their eyes and shudder the way he did, though.</p><p>He rolled the sleeve down, disgusted with himself, and with a sigh, he got up and grabbed his backpack.</p><p>*</p><p>To his surprise, he managed to sail through the morning painlessly – last week’s exam had got him a solid B and in chemistry, Eric had made him laugh so hard it had almost gotten them detention, but it was worth it. When he sat down in the cafeteria and dived into his lunch, he thought maybe life wasn’t that bad after all.</p><p>He heard a heavy thud as someone seated himself next to him.</p><p>“You gonna eat those?” Eric said, already reaching for his french fries.</p><p>Dylan slapped his hand. “Actually, I am. Eat your own.”</p><p>“You’re such a bitch.”</p><p>Dylan smiled.</p><p>They had been eating for a while in content silence when Dylan’s stomach churned menacingly. Lack of sleep sometimes made it queasy, and he better not tease it.</p><p>“You know what, take them,” he said, passing Eric the fries.</p><p>“Now when they’re all cold and rubbery? Are you kidding me?”</p><p>He started devouring them anyway, and Dylan picked the blueberry muffin from his plate and held it in front of his eyes, contemplating whether it was worth the risk. It probably shouldn’t do any-</p><p>“What is that?” Eric asked.</p><p>“A muffin I guess?”</p><p>“No. This.” Eric pointed to the place where Dylan’s loose sleeve had rolled down and revealed the first two accurately parallel cuts.</p><p>Dylan dropped the muffin and hastily covered them. “It’s nothing. It’s- it was Lucy. The cat. You know what she’s like.”</p><p>“I didn’t know she’s that… <em>precise</em>.”</p><p>Dylan had to look away from Eric’s gaze. “Forget it."</p><p>He stared onto the table, his cheeks burning. Eric eventually resumed eating, but the awkwardness lingered, and Dylan wanted to slap his own face for being so careless. Maybe he would.</p><p>“I have to go.” Dylan grabbed his stuff and was already heading to the stairs.</p><p>"Hey,” Eric stopped him. “My place tonight? Still stands?”</p><p>“Yeah. I’ll come over.”</p><p>*</p><p>When Dylan finished his homework and leaned back in his chair, resting his legs on the table and closing his eyes, he was tempted to call off the evening with Eric, of course. He was tired as hell, and no less afraid Eric might bring up that… <em>thing</em>. But he couldn’t avoid Eric forever; no matter what, he could always cheer him up, and Dylan needed him. Besides, he knew, just knew that if he stayed at home, he’d fall asleep at once and then wake up in those early hours again, when the worst thoughts and memories are imminent and ready to torture you. And anything was better than that.</p><p>He left the house in haste, as if afraid he’d change his mind.</p><p>*</p><p>Dylan greeted Eric’s mom and headed straight to the basement. Eric was sitting by the computer, his white t-shirt glowing in the cosy dim-lit room, and appeared to be in a good mood. To Dylan’s relief, he didn’t seem interested in bringing up today’s lunch subject and suggested playing Doom, but Dylan just collapsed on the couch.</p><p>"Later…I’m tired as fuck, barely slept last night... Give me five minutes.”</p><p>“What are you, fucking sixty?”</p><p>“You’re sweet,” he replied without thinking and leaned back on the headrest.</p><p>There was a moment of silence before the clicks on the mouse and tender claps on the keyboard filled the air again. Those sounds had always soothed him. It was not weird at all, definitely not weirder than his mom’s whale songs cassettes. What the hell were those supposed to be...</p><p>*</p><p>He must have dozed off. His neck was now painfully stiff and faint music echoed in his ears, but he kept his eyes closed. Just a little longer…</p><p>Something was lightly touching his wrist. He ignored it, still too sleepy to give a damn, but when it didn’t cease, he eventually opened his eyes.</p><p>Eric was sitting next to him and studying his scars.</p><p>“Reb… What are you doing?”</p><p>“A cat? Really?”</p><p>“Leave me alone,” he mumbled and yanked his hand away. Eric’s fingers were gone, but the skin where he had touched him still tingled.</p><p>“You fucking cut yourself? Why?”</p><p>Those words made Dylan fully awake and he realized he wouldn’t brush him off that easily this time. There was no point in trying to drop the subject. “I don’t know. Maybe I deserve it.”</p><p>“Bullshit. They deserve to be hurt, not you.”</p><p>“Sometimes I'm not sure-"</p><p>"For how long have you been doing this?"</p><p>"I don’t know, just tried it once and kept doing it, I guess... Leave me alone.”</p><p>“No, I won’t. So why?!”</p><p>“When I feel like shit it makes me feel better, okay?” Dylan started feeling rather irritated.</p><p>“Better?” Eric snapped. “How can that make you feel better?”</p><p>Dylan huffed in resignation: Eric could be one stubborn son of a bitch if he wanted to know something. “It’s - It hurts, it does, but then…,” he trailed off, looking for the right words, “…then, it feels good. It gives you a rush, you know? Makes you forget things.”</p><p>“A rush?”</p><p>“Yeah… like, I don’t know, when you’re running or something”</p><p>“Running? I’ve never seen you run in my life! Last time when we were supposed to run a mile you faked having a fucking flu!"</p><p>“I’ve run in my life!” Dylan exclaimed, insulted. “Forget it… it’s like when you shoot and the gun kicks back - or when you’re scared shitless watching some movie… or… or when you watch porn…”</p><p>Eric stared at him in incredulous silence for several long seconds. "What the fuck, Dylan.”</p><p>Dylan sprang to his feet. “You know what? <em>It's none of your business!</em> It’s not hurting anybody!”</p><p>“You’re hurting yourself!”</p><p>“Well, maybe I am a nobody!”</p><p> </p><p>Dylan headed for the door.</p><p>“Sit down."</p><p>“Fuck you! I’m going home,” Dylan shouted over his shoulder. Eric’s mom must have heard it but who gives a fuck.</p><p>
  <em>“Sit. Down.”</em>
</p><p>The tone made Dylan wince a little, but didn’t stop him.</p><p>Eric gave a theatrical sigh. “Maybe I should call Sue.”</p><p>Dylan came to a halt with his hand on the doorknob. “What?”</p><p>“She might be interested in what is her sweet blond boy doing behind the closed door. But of course, you know her better.”</p><p>Dylan turned around. Eric was casually studying his fingernails, and it took Dylan some time to grasp the meaning of his words. “You piece of shit! You’re gonna tell my mom?”</p><p>“No, I’m not. Because you’re gonna be nice and sit the fuck down, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Dylan got back to the couch with long angry strides and sat down with his arms crossed. “What do you want, you fucking psychopath?”</p><p>“Show me.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>"Cut yourself. Right here. I wanna see it.”</p><p>Dylan gaped at Eric in stunned silence. Was he being serious? “Wha- Why would you want that?"</p><p><em>“That's none of your business,”</em> Eric grinned. Well, that backfired awfully. "Besides, you’ve already said I'm a psychopath,” he added casually and reached into a nearby shelf.</p><p>He tossed his army knife between them.</p><p>Dylan had to close his eyes to compose himself. “You have to be fucking kidding me."</p><p>Cutting himself in <em>his</em> room, with <em>his</em> razor, and when <em>he</em> felt like it, was intimate in more ways than he was ready to admit. And most importantly, it was utterly different than being forced to do it. By his friend. A friend who was basically blackmailing him now and eyeing him as if he was a lamb he couldn’t wait to slaughter.</p><p>Eric seemed to have a good time watching him. “C’mon, you can pretend you’re sad or whatever gets you going,” he smirked, and Dylan would have punched him if he wasn’t dumbstruck. And horrified. “What, you’re scared? How sweet. Well, maybe that will teach to quit that bullshit.”</p><p>“Eric, just… Please, you can't tell her- “</p><p>“What difference does it really make?" Eric interrupted him. "You already have…how many? Ten of them?”</p><p>“I…I didn’t count them,” he said, but his voice faltered.</p><p>“Liar.”</p><p>
  <em>"Eleven.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Eric seized Dylan's hand and examined the cuts again, this time looking for a perfect spot for another one. His forefinger slowly traced the skin in a way that could be considered affectionate. Under other circumstances, of course.</p><p>“Here.” Eric pointed to a place between some other cuts, and Dylan wondered why he had left that space free. It made no sense, but neither did pondering about it.</p><p>He looked at Eric pleadingly, but it didn’t soften him up. It only made his grin even wider. Tears threatened to run down Dylan’s cheeks. He tried to blink them away but to no avail, and he started sobbing openly, turning his wet face away.</p><p>"Please, don't make me-..."</p><p>Eric just tossed a tissue unceremoniously into Dylan’s lap.</p><p>After Dylan used it, Eric handed him the knife, and with a grin, he leaned forward to his ear, whispering: “Go slow.”</p><p> </p><p>Dylan surrendered.</p><p>He grabbed the knife, determined to get it over with, but his fingers were shaking and it took the blade forever to actually touch the wrist. The fact that they were sitting so close, breathing the same air, with their knees touching, didn’t help his uneasiness at all. The blade waited still on the skin without making any impact.</p><p>
  <em>"I can’t…”</em>
</p><p>But then Eric laid his palm gently on his, and adding a little pressure, he got their hands moving together.</p><p>Dylan’s breath hitched in his throat as the blade broke his skin. Eric set the pace excruciating slow, giving Dylan plenty of time to feel every small movement of the cold blade, every sparkle of pain. A thin red line appeared behind the blade, and little drops gathered along the line like bright red beads on a string.</p><p>As Dylan watched it, he actually started to feel a part of his anxiety leaving him; the cut was quite superficial, and his body luckily wasn’t overreacting as it sometimes did, even though Eric’s hand was so warm on his, so tender, and -</p><p>He yelped in both pain and surprise as Eric suddenly pressed down, making the second half of the cut deep, much deeper than he had ever made them himself. This time, a regular trickle of blood appeared right away, and a metallic smell filled the warm air. A droplet, and then a second one fell on the carpet, making no sound.</p><p>The stinging pain and the sight almost crushed him. A wave of endorphins and dopamine washed over him, and he was high, no other way to label it. But he wasn’t high enough not to feel a tinge of panic: this time his body <em>did</em> start overreacting, and his pants were suddenly way too tight.</p><p>No matter the reasons, he loved it. And Eric must never find out.</p><p>However, when he looked up at Eric, he saw he was having trouble himself. His pupils, blown to black pits, were devouring the bloody sight, and he was breathing heavily through his parted lips.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>, Dyl…” Eric said finally, his voice coarse, “that’s..."</p><p>He hadn't even finished the sentence, but his tone made Dylan lower his eyes like a flattered schoolgirl. There was something in Eric’s voice, something that made him warm in all the wrong places.</p><p>Eric dropped the knife on the couch, not minding the stains, and ran his finger lazily over the new cut, making the trickle change its direction. It stung, the saltiness of the faint layer of sweat on Eric’s hand burned the fresh wound, and a small whimper escaped Dylan’s lips. Eric gazed at him hungrily, and Dylan tried to look away but he couldn’t: those black pits in the place where Eric’s eyes used to be engulfed him.</p><p>Without breaking the eye contact, Eric traced the cut again. But this time, with his fingernail.</p><p>Dylan yelped.</p><p>“Shhh…" Eric pressed the bloody fingertip on his lips, and Dylan had to resist the urge to lick it. Eric slowly withdrew the finger, staring for a moment at Dylan’s lips before he went on with admiring the wound. Then, he lowered his mouth.</p><p>“Don't-...”</p><p>Dylan trailed off almost immediately. The moment the word had left his mouth, he knew it hadn’t been a genuine protest. It had been the last shout of the sane part of his mind leaving him, bidding him farewell.</p><p>He watched in slow motion as Eric's lips parted and his tongue made a broad lick over the trickle running down the old wounds, and a moan escaped Dylan's lips. There was so much blood Eric couldn’t lick it away completely, rather he spread it all over the place. When his tongue reached the new, bleeding cut, he pressed his lips down and sucked.</p><p>Shuddering Dylan wondered if he had ever had such a beautiful nightmare.</p><p>Eric gulped and glanced up at him. The bloodstains on his white t-shirt made him look like he just murdered someone, and the blood, <em>god</em>, the blood on his lips looked like a smudged lipstick.</p><p>The sight was just too much. Dylan gripped the front of Eric’s stained t-shirt and pulled him into a feverish kiss, and he didn’t even care if Eric wanted it too, he just needed to devour him, to devour the lips of the person who had almost slashed his wrist, who had just drunk his blood –</p><p>He moaned when Eric's lips parted, inviting him in, and flung his arms around his neck.The kiss was desperate, brutal almost, its taste both thrilling and nauseating, and Dylan came to realize he had been craving this for ages, no matter how hard he tried to forget those dreams where Eric had visited him in between nightmares, all those early mornings when Dylan had woken up gasping in a wet spot, quickly reaching for the razor in his bedside table.</p><p>The wound was now dripping down the side of Eric’s neck, and Dylan broke the kiss to lazily lick it off the sensitive spot.</p><p>“Fuck..,” Eric exhaled and landed his palm on Dylan’s inner thigh, squeezing it, and it made Dylan’s now full hard-on throb.</p><p> </p><p>He had been half-hard since Eric made him cry.</p><p>Crying just made him hard.</p><p>And even if it didn’t, the blood would.</p><p> </p><p>Eric's vein was pumping under his tongue, tasting like blood and sweat and<em> Eric</em>, and it had woken something in Dylan, something just clicked in his brain, fogging any last rational thoughts. He couldn’t remember feeling such a craving, and he had, just <em>had</em> to bite down hard.</p><p>Eric yelped in pain. “What’s got into you, you crazy bitch?!” He tried to pull him away by his hair, but that only made him moan.</p><p>“You started it, should've left me alone, remember?” Dylan growled before sucking on the wound. He had never got off on hurting others, but he couldn't resist breaking Eric's skin, getting into him. Their blood blended, he could just taste it, and despite - or maybe because - they brought out the worst about themselves, it tasted wonderful; sweet, heady, and dangerous.</p><p>"You're such a freak, you know that," Eric mumbled but allowed Dylan to nibble at his neck.</p><p>Dylan's hand crawled into Eric's lap and he grinned when he found Eric's hard bulge tenting his pants and squeezed it. "Me? You're the one who's getting off on <em>hurting</em> me - "</p><p>“Shut up." Eric shoved him onto his back with a savage force, but any possible complaints were swallowed in a sloppy, almost painful kiss. Eric got on top of him and, propping himself on one elbow, he rubbed their hard-ons together in a way that made Dylan whimper like a little bitch. Then he groped for Dylan's wrist and dipped his fingers in the wound. It didn’t even sting anymore; in Dylan's current headspace, under Eric's movements, there were no such things as pain or pleasure. They blended in one intense sensation, and Dylan wanted to be high forever.</p><p>Eric kept on grinding down and, breaking the kiss, he shoved those fingers between Dylan’s lips, and he started sucking on them, lapping at his own blood, twirling his tongue around them, moaning.</p><p>“I knew you’d like that,” Eric whispered breathlessly, his cheeks flushed, watching Dylan with a smile almost affectionate “You’re so simple.”</p><p> </p><p>Dylan bit down on them.</p><p>With a yelp, Eric halted his hips, slapped him, and in a second his hand was clenched around Dylan’s throat. “Do it again," he growled, "and I’ll slit your throat." He squeezed him even tighter. "Am I clear?”</p><p>Dylan could barely breathe and the pressure was making him stupid, but it both went straight to his cock, creating a wet spot on his boxers. He shifted his hips, desperate for some friction.</p><p>Eric moved back, denying him that relief. “I've asked you something.”</p><p>Only a hoarse gasp escaped his throat, so he just made a small erratic nod.</p><p>That answer seemed to be enough since Eric loosened his grip and finally rubbed his thigh against Dylan's cock, making his eyes roll back into his head. Even those clumsy rubs were already making him close, and the zipper of his jeans pressing sharply to the leaking head of his cock only added to that.</p><p>“God, look at yourself,” he growled, releasing Dylan’s throat in favor of his wounded wrist. "You really like pain, huh?" Little flames flashed in his eyes before he nothing but assaulted his wrist, sinking his teeth into the cut they made together. <em>Together</em>.</p><p>Dylan yelped as a wave of sharp pain shot through his headspace and spread to his whole body. A trickle of blood rapidly ran and Eric was devouring it obscenely, he looked like a monster, and perhaps he really was, but he rolled his hips so sweetly, more deliberately, faster, and at the same time he was biting, sucking, drinking from his cut, he was bleeding so much, so fucking much, he might bleed to death-</p><p>"Eric-", he moaned, "I'm- I'm- hold me-"</p><p>Eric abandoned the cut and kissed him with a mouthful of blood, tugged at his hair, and grinding down against him, he sent him over the edge. Dylan came whimpering like a girl, swallowing his own blood, warmness spreading in his jeans.</p><p>Eric kept on moving and gripped Dylan's throat again, both things making the tail end of his orgasm sharper, borderline unbearable, heaven. When Eric’s movements became erratic, Dylan was already so dizzy and the white noise in his ears so deafening he was only faintly aware of Eric growling in his ear: “…you’re such a freaky slut, next time I’m gonna fuck you, I’ll fucking rape you, you’d fucking love that wouldn’t you- “ He buried his head into the crook of Dylan's neck and with one last grind, he came hard, grunting and cursing.</p><p>Eric collapsed next to Dylan and released his throat.</p><p>Dylan coughed, spitting some blood on his t-shirt, and gasped for breath.</p><p>*</p><p>The humming, the sea waves in his ears were receding, but still there, and they blended perfectly with Eric's heavy breathing. He listened, staring at the ceiling, and this time he was really seeing stars. As if dreaming, he raised his right hand in a silly attempt to grab them. The wound was a menacing mess, and he watched it bleed in a peaceful trance.</p><p>
  <em>Twelve.</em>
</p><p>And the last one was by far the most beautiful.</p><p>He closed his eyes, and let the drops fall onto his own cheeks, into his mouth, and onto his smiling lips.</p><p>*</p><p>“You're never gonna cut yourself again.”</p><p>Dylan kept his eyes closed. He was floating, Eric’s voice just an echo from far away.</p><p>“From now on, I’m doing it to you. Not you, not anyone else. Understand?”</p><p>When Dylan finally turned his head towards him, Eric winced at the sight of his pale, blood-stained face.</p><p>“I understand.” Dylan’s voice was firm and serene: a voice of a part of his soul that had just been woken up.</p><p>"And...," Eric seemed to have some trouble continuing, Dylan’s glassy gaze unnerving him,"...cut that 'I deserve it' crap. You don't, people do. And they're gonna get it soon. Understand?"</p><p>Dylan's smile widened, for he had already made a resolution before Eric even said it: He was done with his bad conscience, with self-control, with all that overthinking crap. Farewell. He didn't fear anyone or anything anymore, not even the sun, because soon the time will come when it won't come up for a long time.</p><p>“Crystal clear.” Two words, an oath. They kissed.</p><p>*</p><p>Eric’s eyes fell onto Dylan’s wrist, awe and horror filling his eyes. "You're bleeding...like, a lot. You need stitches."</p><p>Dylan grinned and leaned over to Eric’s ear, giving it a gentle bite. "Do it then,” he whispered. “And go slow.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is a piece of fiction. I neither condone criminal acts nor am I downplaying the seriousness of mental health issues.<br/>I use this as a safe space to explore my own sexual fantasies which are heavily influenced by my own mental health struggle. Reading similar stuff written by other authors has always been cathartic to me.</p><p>Rated E mainly for all the blood, so I hope I didn’t disappoint you.<br/>Not beta-read. Let me know if you enjoyed it!</p><p>if-blood-makes-you-ran-dy-clap-your-hands<br/>CLAP CLAP CLAP</p><p> </p><p>Soundtrack: AL†RS - 30Drip</p></blockquote></div></div>
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